


Shadows on a moonlit sky

by EarthboundCosmonaut



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Ada has a plan, Angst, Confinement, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hecate has feelings, Implied Hicksqueak, Mildred has some unsolicited advice, Pippa Pentangle is a pent-angel, Set after 3x7 - Bad Magic, implied/referenced eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 11:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/EarthboundCosmonaut
Summary: She rises and begins to pace, flicking a hovering flame in and out of existence to expend some of the excess magic that is churning under her skin. She has never known what to do with these surges of memory and emotion. They come sometimes, like storms she must weather, and each time she worries that she will lose something of herself to the tempest.Hecate Hardbroom is feeling unsettled after the events of Bad Magic. Various people try to help.
Relationships: Hardbroom/Pentangle (Worst Witch)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 89





	Shadows on a moonlit sky

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to talkwordytome for listening to my unflitered views on everything from Hecate Hardbroom's eyeliner to my headcanons about confinement, and also for betaing this. It's nerve wracking posting a first piece for a fandom - I hope you like it!

It’s been rather a busy afternoon. In an unusual reversal of roles, Hecate had spent an hour passionately persuading Ada _not_ to expel a pupil. It had then taken Ada the best part of another hour to persuade Dimity that an unfortunate accident involving her familiar was not sufficient grounds to expel Sybil Hallow. By the time she’d followed that up with 1:1 meetings with the girls and staff who had been affected by Julie Hubble’s entrapment spell, it is evening and she is late for dinner.

There is a buzz of conversation in the dining hall when Ada arrives. The events of the day don’t seem to have dampened the spirit of the girls – indeed she suspects most had not even noticed the drama playing out around them. As she takes her seat she looks around the dining hall. The plates are empty. Miss Tapioca and her staff stand by impatiently, ladles poised ready to dispense cauldrons of gelatinous stew.

“Why is nobody eating?” she asks Miss Bat, who is engaged in animated conversation with Miss Drill.

“We haven’t said grace yet,” Gwen tells her.

Ada glances further up the table and realises that Hecate’s seat, too, is empty. It appears that none of the other teachers had the good sense to start the meal in her deputy’s absence. Sighing, she stands and claps her hands together.

“Hush now girls. Join me in giving thanks for the delicious meal that Miss Tapioca has prepared for us.” She remains hopeful that if she keeps encouraging her, the cook might one day produce a meal that is more than passable.

Wood screeches against stone as the girls stand to chant the grace, their high clear voices rising up into the rafters.

* * *

Ada keeps half an eye on the door to the dining hall, but it becomes clear as the meal goes on that Hecate is not running late, but rather has absented herself from the meal entirely. She waits until the housekeeping team have cleared the tables and washed the dishes before going down into the kitchen. She assembles a tray: a slice of bread spread with a thin layer of butter, a little bowl of jam, apple slices arranged in a delicate fan, a glass of milk. Easy foods to tempt a troubled appetite.

It is an unfortunate fact of running a girls’ school that every few years she has to arrange for a specialist mediwitch to come in to treat a girl who has become quiet and withdrawn and gaunt. Hecate had been the first teacher for whom she had had to organise such a visit. But then, Hecate has always been a somewhat exceptional case. That was over twenty years ago and Hecate has long since recovered, although occasionally she still needs a nudge during stressful times. Today certainly has been that, Ada reflects.

A gaggle of third year girls is standing in the hallway as she carries the tray up the stairs. Fragments of their conversation drift over to her: _glad I’m not made of clay any more_ ; _I thought I was going to be trapped in Cackles forever_. Mildred Hubble stands on the edge of the group, chewing her bottom lip. She remains pensive even when the other girls laugh at something Enid has said. Ada thinks she spies an opportunity to solve two problems at once.

“Mildred,” she calls, beckoning the girl over with her free hand.

“Yes Miss Cackle,” says Mildred, her wide-eyed expression balanced between hope and apprehension.

“Will you take this to Miss Hardbroom?” She hands Mildred the tray. “You’ll probably find her in her room.”

“Me?” asks Mildred, her expression tipping into apprehension.

“Yes dear. You may have to knock several times – I expect she’s somewhat distracted.”

“It might be better if one of the teachers took it,” Mildred says doubtfully. “After today I don’t think she’ll want to see me.”

Ada smiles encouragingly at her. “After today, Mildred, I suspect you are one of the very few people she _will_ want to see. Now, make sure you wait until Miss Hardbroom has finished eating so that you can take the tray back down to the kitchen.”

“Yes Miss Cackle.”

“And Mildred, if Miss Hardbroom tries to send you away, tell her I will sit with her while she eats instead.”

“Yes Miss Cackle.”

She watches as, slowly and with great care, Mildred turns and starts climbing the stairs towards to tower where the staff quarters are. It’s a good thing she hasn’t prepared any hot food, Ada muses. At this pace, it certainly would not be hot by the time it reached Hecate.

* * *

Mildred hesitates outside the door to Miss Hardbroom’s bedroom. Despite what Miss Cackle had said, she doesn’t think HB will want to see her. She had looked very sad the last time Mildred had spoken to her, earlier that afternoon.

She knocks on the wooden door, and then knocks again, more loudly, when there is no answer. She waits, her arms starting to ache from the tray’s weight , but the door remains firmly closed. Is HB somewhere else? The potions lab maybe? She shifts the tray and knocks again. “Miss Hardbroom?” she calls, loudly enough to be heard through the door if HB is inside. Still nothing.

She’s just turning to walk away when the door creaks open behind her. “What is it, Mildred Hubble?”

Mildred turns back. “Miss Cackle asked me to bring you this,” she says, holding up the tray.

Miss Hardbroom looks tired. One side of her face is red and puffy, as though she’s been lying down, and her shoulders are hunched. “Thank you,” she says, reaching to take the tray. “You may go now.” Her voice has none of its usual sternness.

Mildred doesn’t release her grip. “Miss Cackle said I should wait with you, or go and fetch her so she can.”

HB sighs. “Of course she did,” she murmurs. “Very well, you’d better come in.” She takes the tray from Mildred and walks inside, leaving Mildred to follow.

Mildred stares around Miss Hardbroom’s room. She’s seen glimpses of it before, but she’s never been inside. It’s bigger than Mildred’s room in the tower, but furnished almost exactly the same way: the same narrow cast iron bed frame, neatly made with the same white sheets and grey blankets that are issued to students. Arranged around the edges of the room are the same desk, chest of drawers and wardrobe. The only things to show that it’s not a student dormitory are the fireplace, before which two armchairs and a battered coffee table stand, and book case filled with leather bound books.

She tries to imagine what it would be like to live in this room for her whole life – never to go on holiday, or to sleep over at a friend’s, or to move somewhere new. She can’t even begin to imagine how much _stuff_ she would have if she had lived here for 30 years – a lot more than HB has, certainly.

Miss Hardbroom sits in one of the armchairs, resting the tray on her knee, and nods towards the other one. “Sit, Mildred.”

She does. The chair is upright and rather firm and her feet don’t quite reach the floor. It’s not very comfortable.

HB doesn’t speak, so Mildred doesn’t either. She watches as Miss Hardbroom does what can only be described as playing with her food: breaking the bread into smaller pieces and arranging them in neat rows on her plate. She doesn’t look very enthusiastic about actually eating it.

It occurs to Mildred that HB must have eaten nothing but school dinners for thirty years. No homecooked Sunday roasts or trips to cafes, just plate after plate of bland, repetitive meals. She hopes, at the very least, that Miss Hardbroom has a stash of tuck in her school-issue desk. Perhaps Miss Pentangle sends her donuts sometimes?

“Thank you,” she says.

Miss Hardbroom look up from her tray, her eyebrows lifted in question. “For what?”

“For persuading Miss Cackle not to bind me here.” Miss Hardbroom opens her mouth to respond and Mildred presses on before she can deny it. “I know you did and – I love Cackle’s, but I don’t want to stay here for the rest of my life. I don’t want to never be able to visit my Mum or go on holiday, or just – leave.”

Miss Hardbroom’s gaze drops back down. To the bread and the apple and the milk that she has hardly touched. “I don’t want that for you either. You have far too much potential.”

“So do you.” The words slip out before she has a chance to think about them. She wants to clap her hand over her mouth when Miss Hardbroom’s head jerks up, her eyes wide.

They stare at each other in silence. A muscle twitches in Miss Hardbroom’s jaw. “I am content with my lot,” she says finally.

“But didn’t anyone argue for you? Like you did for me? A teacher? Your parents?”

Miss Hardbroom shakes her head. “My crimes were far graver than yours, Mildred. I have been given a chance to atone. By remaining here at Cackle’s I can make sure that others do not make the same mistakes I did.”

Mildred’s not convinced that what she did was any different to HB. Her Mum had threatened the school and nearly been turned to stone, exactly like Indigo Moon. Mildred had just been lucky that there were people there to help her fix it. She remembers the way Miss Hardbroom stepped between her and Mum earlier that day and told her to run. It’s not the first time she’s done something like that – put herself in danger to protect Mildred and the other students. She did the same with Agatha, and Miss Gullet, and the creeping cold of the Founding Stone. Even if her crimes really were worse than Mildred’s, she thinks Miss Hardbroom must have more than atoned for them by now. But HB is looking pale and drawn and Mildred’s not sure how she would react to her pointing this out. 

“You haven’t eaten your dinner,” she says instead, nodding towards the tray on Miss Hardbroom’s lap.

“You don’t have to wait while I eat. I believe you have already achieved Miss Cackle’s objective in sending you here.”

Mildred shakes her head. “She said I had to wait until you were finished. I don’t mind. I—I want to be helpful.”

Miss Hardbroom’s eyes soften, taking on a liquid warmth that Mildred has come to recognise as a smile of sorts. “You’re a kind girl, Mildred Hubble,” she murmurs.

They sink back into silence. Miss Hardbroom picks up a small square of bread and places it in her mouth. She chews it for a long time.

“Maybe,” Mildred ventures, “as I’m here, I could ask you some questions about my potions homework?”

Miss Hardbroom nods approvingly. “That seems a very sensible use of the time.”

She thinks back to her latest assignment. “So, first of all, you asked us to describe how the moon phases affect brewing, but I still don’t really understand that bit.”

Miss Hardbroom pauses for a moment, gathering her thoughts before she begins to explain. “There are two factors to consider in relation to the moon.” Her voice is patient, even though she’s already explained this at least three times in class. “Its aspect when the ingredients are harvested, and the aspect when the potion is brewed.”

Mildred leans back in her chair, listening intently. She’s determined to remember it this time.

* * *

The meal Ada has prepared for her is modest, but it still takes Hecate an inordinately long time to finish it. The apple slices are browned and fuzzy around the edges by the time she places the last one in her mouth. It feels solid and unwieldy and she chews for an age before she is able to swallow it. She takes a sip of milk to help it down. Her stomach clenches uncomfortably.

Mildred is watching her with thinly veiled curiosity. She would not have forced herself to finish the meal if Mildred had not insisted on staying. Ada knew that, of course. She has never been above weaponising children to get her own way.

“Do you have any other questions?” Hecate asks her.

Mildred considers for a moment, then shakes her head. “No, thank you Miss Hardbroom.” As she so often does when she looks at Mildred, Hecate feels a pang of familiarity. Mildred reminds her so much of Joy: she’s so curious and so talented and so very _young_. She shivers at the thought of how close Mildred had come today to repeating her mistakes. She would do anything to spare her that pain.

“You must always ask if you don’t understand something,” Hecate reminds her, placing the tray on the coffee table and rising to her feet. “If you don’t wish to ask a question in front of your classmates, you can ask me privately after school.”

“I know,” says Mildred, also standing. She pauses for a moment, head tilted to one side, and then suggests hesitantly: “Maybe I could come and see you every week? There’s a lot I don’t understand.”

Hecate nods, pleased that Mildred is starting to take her studies seriously. Perhaps she has, after all, learnt something from the day’s events. “Very well. Let’s start with Wednesday after last period.”

She’s not prepared for Mildred to launch herself at her midsection – nearly staggers backwards as the girl wraps her arms around her and hugs her fiercely. Her embrace is warm and tight and entirely too much.

“Mildred,” she gasps, placing a cautious hand on the girl’s head. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.” Mildred releases her as suddenly as she had seized hold. Her face is pink where it has been pressed against the fabric of Hecate’s dress. “I’m just really glad you were there today.”

“Where else would I be?”

Mildred stares at her. It takes a few moments for confusion to morph into a wide grin as she recognises the comment as a joke. Hecate chooses not to dwell on what this reveals about her student’s impression of her.

“I will return this to the kitchen,” she tells Mildred, gesturing to the supper tray. “It’s nearly dark and you have lamps to light.”

“Yes Miss Hardbroom.” Mildred goes to leave, but she pauses at the doorway, her hand poised over the handle. “You know, whenever I’m feeling sad about something I talk to Mum or Maud or Enid about it, and then it doesn’t feel as bad anymore.” The words come out in a nervous rush that leaves Hecate struggling to untangle them.

When she finally does, Hecate frowns at her. “I fail to see how that is relevant to me.”

“Maybe you’d feel better if you spoke to one of your friends.”

Hecate treats Mildred to the kind of glare that usually precedes a detention. “I don’t know what has given you the impression that I am anything other than fine, Mildred Hubble.”

Mildred ducks her head. “Nothing Miss Hardbroom.”

Hecate feels a pang of guilt. After the performance Mildred has just been forced to endure – over a slice of bread and an apple, for the Code’s sake – it must be quite apparent that she is not at her best. She schools her face into a softer expression. “Go. It’s getting late and you’ve had an eventful day. We _both_ have.”

Mildred meets her gaze, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Goodnight.”

“Good night Mildred.”

The room feels suddenly empty when Mildred is gone. Hecate sinks down into an armchair, absently rubbing her stomach in an attempt to ease its tight discomfort. She should take the tray down to the kitchen. She should do the evening rounds. She should check that the wards have not been damaged by the uncontrolled magic that has been floating around today. She should complete her marking and prepare for tomorrow’s classes. She does not want to do any of these things.

She leans her head against the backrest and closes her eyes. Visions of the day’s events rise up to meet her: Ada trapped in a clay model; Julie Hubble advancing on Mildred with bolts of magic sparking wildly off her; Indigo’s petrified form against a canopy of trees. She feels again the panic that had overcome her at her helplessness in the face of all of it. Despite her best efforts she had not been able to stop events from unfolding. As exhausted as she is, she knows she will not sleep with these memories churning in her mind.

She rises and begins to pace, flicking a hovering flame in and out of existence to expend some of the excess magic that is churning under her skin. She has never known what to do with these surges of memory and emotion. They come sometimes, like storms she must weather, and each time she worries that she will lose something of herself to the tempest.

Mildred’s words ring in her ears. _Maybe you’d feel better if you spoke to one of your friends_. How sweet of Mildred to believe that she has friends. Hecate has colleagues and acquaintances, but not friends. Not since her teenage friendships with Indigo and Pippa, and look how _those_ turned out.

Except that Pippa has, unexpectedly, become a something of friend again. It’s not like it was before – how could it be, when Pippa is out living the life she had planned for herself and Hecate is still haunting Cackle’s like a restless phantom? But Pippa has fallen into the routine of calling on Friday evenings. She sits in front of the mirror with a sickly pink drink in hand and tells Hecate about what’s been happening at Pentangle’s: the student dramas, the staff squabbles, the endless diplomacy required to manage the demands of interfering parents. Hecate lets the flow of conversation wash over her, watching the progression of expressions across Pippa’s face as she casts off the week’s stresses. And then finally Pippa will turn to her with a dazzling smile and ask _And what about you, Hiccup? How was your week_? Hecate never knows how to reply, but she is so pleased to be asked.

Could she call Pippa, she wonders? She’s not sure what she would say, but she thinks she would like very much to listen to Pippa chatter for a while. On impulse she crosses the room to her mirror and instructs it to call Miss Pentangle at Pentangle’s Academy before she can talk herself out of it.

Pippa answers a few seconds later with a wide smile. “Hecate, how lovely! And mid-week too, how very spontaneous.”

Pippa’s hair hangs loose around her shoulders and she is wearing a fluffy pink dressing gown. “I’m disturbing you,” Hecate says. She should have realised that it wouldn’t be convenient to call outside their usual time slot. She’s intruding on Pippa’s personal time.

“Not at all,” Pippa says, waving her hand dismissively. “I was just curled up with a novel, nothing that can’t wait. I’d much rather talk to you.”

Hecate tries to smile but her face feels tight and brittle and she fears it comes across as more of a grimace.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying so,” Pippa says softly, “but you look exhausted. Is everything all right Hiccup?”

She opens her mouth to reassure Pippa that everything is fine, but she cannot form the words. A lump presses against her throat and tears prick at her eyes. She shakes her head.

“Oh Hecate,” murmurs Pippa, leaning closer to the mirror. “What’s the matter?”

Pippa’s voice warm and full of concern. Somehow it is the very softness of it that transforms the ache of the day into a sting of pain. A strangled squeak escapes her and she presses her fingers to her lips to hold back any further embarrassing noises.

“You poor thing,” coos Pippa. “It’s alright to cry, you know Hiccup. I do it all the time.”

As if in cue, a tear runs down her cheek. Mortified, Hecate turns to the side in the pretence of looking for a handkerchief so that Pippa will not see her weakness. “I’m sorry,” she manages to stutter, wiping furiously at her wet cheek.

“It’s all right. Take as long as you need darling, and then why don’t you tell me what’s been going on, hmm?”

Hecate nods, not trusting herself to speak just yet. She feels shaky and embarrassed, but the vice around her stomach has loosened and her magic no longer nips and surges. In the mirror Pippa smiles encouragingly and despite the disastrous turn the call has taken, Hecate is so pleased that she’s there.


End file.
